All Your Perfects(52)

There is no doubt in my mind that Graham and I used to be perfect for each other. But just because we used to be perfect for each other doesn’t mean we’re perfect together now. We’re far from it.

I look at the clock, wishing it would magically fast forward through tomorrow. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be so much worse than today was. Because tomorrow I feel like we’ll be forced to make a decision.

We’ll have to decide if it’s finally time to open that wooden box.

The thought of it makes my stomach turn. A pain rips through me and I clench at my shirt as I lean forward. I am so heartbroken; I can actually physically feel it. But I don’t cry, because in this situation, my tears cause me even more pain.

I walk to our bedroom with dry eyes. It’s the longest stretch of time I’ve gone in the last twenty-four hours without crying. I push open our bedroom door, expecting Graham to be asleep. Instead, he’s sitting up against the headboard. His reading glasses are at the tip of his nose and he’s holding a book in his lap. His bedside lamp is on and we make eye contact for a brief second.

I crawl in bed beside him, my back turned to him. I think we’re both too broken tonight to even continue the argument. He continues reading his book and I do my best to try to fall asleep. My mind runs, though. Several minutes pass and just knowing he’s right next to me prevents me from relaxing. He must realize I’m still awake because I hear him as he closes his book and places it on the nightstand. “I quit my job today.”

I don’t say anything in response to his confession. I just stare at the wall.

“I know you think I left for work this morning and that I just left you here, locked up in this bedroom.”

He’s right. That’s exactly what I thought.

“But I only left the house because I needed to quit my job. I can’t work in the place where I made the worst mistake of my life. I’ll start looking for a new job next week.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and pull the covers up to my chin. He turns out the lamp, indicating he doesn’t need a response from me. After he rolls over, I let out a quiet sigh, knowing he won’t be working around Andrea anymore. He stopped giving up. He’s trying again. He still believes there’s a possibility that our marriage will go back to how it used to be.

I feel sorry for him. What if he’s wrong?

These thoughts plague me for the next hour. Graham somehow falls asleep—or I think he’s asleep. He’s playing the part well.

But I can’t sleep. The tears keep threatening to fall and the pain in my stomach gets worse and worse. I get up and take some aspirin, but when I’m back in the bed I start to question whether emotional turmoil can actually manifest as physical pain.

Something isn’t right.

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

I feel a sharp pain. A deep pain. A pain strong enough to force me onto my side. I clench my fists around my blanket and curl my legs up to my stomach. When I do this, I feel it. Slippery and wet, all over the sheets.

“Graham.” I try to reach for him, but he’s rolling over to turn on the light. Another pain, so profound it makes me gasp for breath.

“Quinn?”

His hand is on my shoulder. He pulls the covers away. Whatever he sees sends him flying off the bed, the lights are on, he’s picking me up, telling me it’ll be okay, he’s carrying me, we’re in the car, he’s speeding, I’m sweating, I look down, I’m covered in blood. “Graham.”

I’m terrified and he takes my hand and he squeezes it and he says, “It’s okay, Quinn. We’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

Everything after that runs together.

There are glimpses of things that stick out to me. The fluorescent light over my head. Graham’s hand around mine. Words I don’t want to hear, like, miscarriage and hemorrhaging and surgery.

Words Graham is saying into the phone, probably to his mother, while he holds my hand. He whispers them because he thinks I might be asleep. Part of me is, most of me isn’t. I know these aren’t things he’s saying might happen. They’ve already happened. I’m not going into surgery. I’ve just come out of it.

Graham ends the call. His lips are against my forehead and he whispers my name. “Quinn?” I open my eyes to meet his. His eyes are red and there’s a deep wrinkle between his brows that I’ve never noticed before. It’s new, probably brought on by what’s currently happening. I wonder if I’ll think of this moment every time I look at that wrinkle.

“What happened?”

The crease between his eyes deepens. He brushes his hand over my hair and carefully releases his words. “You had a miscarriage last night,” he confirms. His eyes search mine, preparing for whatever reaction I might have.

It’s weird that my body doesn’t feel it. I know I’m probably heavily medicated, but it seems like I would know that there was a life growing inside of me that is no longer there. I put a hand on my stomach, wondering how I missed it. How long had I been pregnant? How long has it been since we last had sex? Over two months. Closer to three.

“Graham,” I whisper. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I know I should be full of so much devastation right now that not even a sliver of happiness or relief could find its way into my soul. But somehow, I don’t feel the devastation that should accompany this moment. I feel hope. “I was pregnant? We finally got pregnant?”